


Making Mistakes and Making Amends

by aralias



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Serial: s129 The Five Doctors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-20
Updated: 2011-04-20
Packaged: 2017-10-18 10:46:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events in the Death Zone are over, the fifth Doctor accidentally on purpose lets the Master win just once, because he doesn't know how else to apologise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Making Mistakes and Making Amends

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ошибаясь и возмещая ущерб](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3586728) by [Kollega](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kollega/pseuds/Kollega)



> **Dakin:** I just wanted to say thank you.  
>  **Scripps:** So? Give him a subscription to _The Spectator_ or a box of Black Magic. Just because you've got a scholarship doesn't mean you've got to give him unfettered access to your dick.  
>  **Dakin:** So how would you say thank you?  
>  **Scripps:** _(sighs)_ Same as you, probably. On my knees.  
>  _The History Boys_ , Alan Bennett

“Do you know,” the Master asks him, punctuating this sentence with a sharp, angry thrust, “what the worst part was, Doctor?” The Doctor — on knees and shaking arms — considers attempting an answer, but the Master doesn’t pause to hear it. “It wasn’t,” he continues, building a sharp staccato rhythm of words and hips, “your first self - pretending not to - recognise me. _That_ was unbearable - but not nearly - the worst part.”

“I’m sorry,” the Doctor pants, though it was a long time ago for him and he can hardly remember what it was that provoked that cruel response. “I shouldn’t-” His fingers tense in the dark blue sheets as the Master slams into him again.

“Nor - was it your - second self - ignoring me. Scarcely even - _looking_ at me - not worth your attention. Or your third self - sneering at the seal - of the _High Council_ \- a _completely — legitimate_ seal.”

“I know,” the Doctor says. He lets go a breath that is half sigh, half moan, though, this time, he remembers well that his third self was still angry at the Master for shooting him and running. “I know, I’m sorry.”

“As _though_ \- I would stoop to - stealing _trinkets_ ,” the Master says, effectively expressing a sneer even through laboured breathing. “You insulted me - _then_ abandoned me - to the lightning. Your fourth self-” He stills, buried in the Doctor to the hilt. “No," he says thoughtfully, "your fourth self was absent, if I recall.” Through the shirt he is still wearing, the Doctor feels the Master’s hands rub a long slow line from the base of his spine to his neck and back down. “He, at least, had no opportunity to offend me. Where were you, Doctor?”

“…Cambridge,” the Doctor says warily. Against his better judgement, he drops his head as the Master continues to stroke his back lazily. Blonde hair flops round his face. “1979. Punting… on the Cam.”

 _“Alone?”_ the Master inquires archly.

“No,” the Doctor says, trying to keep his voice steady as the Master pulls out of him exquisitely slowly. “With Romana, actually.”

“How pleasant,” the Master says, pleasant himself now. Fingers card fondly through the Doctor’s hair as the Master slides gently back in, “And how very appropriate that you should have been punting,” he chuckles, “given our current situation.”

The Doctor attempts a weak laugh, “I suppose that’s-” The Master yanks his head back and slams back into him, deeper than before, and the Doctor screams in surprise and pleasurepain.

“Your fourth failed to offend me,” the Master says, voice sneering but remarkably unbroken now as he pounds into the Doctor’s arse, “but your _fifth_ self, this self, this beautiful, young body, Doctor. Oh, you _listened_ , that was more than your third self managed, but, like him, you left me to die. You stole the transmat remote which, as you know, Doctor, would have carried both of us to safety, and after you’d heard me out, too. After you knew I'd come to rescue you.”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” the Doctor whimpers.

“ _Are_ you?” the Master demands. He thrusts once more and comes with a low gasp, pulls out immediately leaving the Doctor still hard and panting, his limbs buckling underneath him. Usually when they make love, have sex, fuck bitterly, they manage to finish together. The Master must be more angry, even, than he appears, if he wasn’t willing to hold himself back.

“Yes,” the Doctor says softly. “That’s why I’m here.” He lowers his trembling body onto the bed, and turns onto his back, hearts hammering. Before he has his breath back, the Master has straddled him.

The Doctor’s eyes widen as he follows the Master’s leer to where his own erection twitches between them, but it seems the Master is merely using his weight to hold the Doctor down. He palms the Doctor’s cock, but keeps his hand still.

“Now, Master,” the Doctor says, trying to sound reasonable and squirm away. “I really _think_ -”

“Sadly, my dear Doctor, that will have to wait,” the Master says, rubbing the pad of his thumb, languidly, along the shaft. “I’m afraid I haven’t nearly finished with you. You see, even being left to the tender mercies of the Cybermen was not the worst part of a thoroughly disagreeable day.”

“O-h?” the Doctor says, hearing the single syllable shudder into several, as the Master begins to move his entire hand at last. “Please. Do... go on.”

The Master chuckles. “The worst part,” he says pleasantly, “wasn’t even that the council knew they could call me in to rescue you. They did me the courtesy of offering a set of regenerations for my trouble, something I expect I’ve forfeited due to your insufferable _stubbornness_ ," he says with a jerk of his hand. "No, the worst part, _look at me_ , Doctor, you must look at me, was that I would have done it without being offered _anything_.” He gives the Doctor one final, hard stroke and the Doctor gasps and comes with a shudder and a flutter of his eyelids. “And everyone else knew that,” the Master says, when the Doctor’s eyes return to his, “except you.”

The Doctor breathes. Feeling wrung out, and still held down by the Master’s weight across his hips, he manages to push himself up, off the bed, with one hand and uses the other to draw the Master’s head down towards him. Tentatively, he presses a kiss to the Master’s lips and gently parts his own to let the Master’s tongue into his mouth. It is strange to have to tilt his head up to kiss the Master, as the Master has always been shorter. The beard is more of a problem from this angle, but it is almost a relief to be the one asking forgiveness for once and to have it given. A relief to be able to kiss him like this.

Eventually, the Master pulls back, and with another brief kiss, climbs off him. “You will find, Doctor, that your temporal limiter is in the top drawer of the bedside cabinet.”

“Is it really?” the Doctor says, raising his eyebrows with a wry smile.

The Master, leaning back against a stack of pillows, raises his own brows: a grin toying with the edge of his mouth.

The Doctor shakes his head. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, pulls his trousers up from around his ankles and stands: snapping his braces back into place as he does so. He opens the drawer and removes the missing component of his TARDIS. How typical that the Master should chose to steal this particular component: a little reminder of another exchange made in prehistoric Heathrow.

With this meeting in mind, the Doctor checks the limiter for dangerous programming modifications, but it appears to be as he left it. Lumps of chewing gum are holding various pieces together - perhaps he ought to fix it properly at some point - but those are left over from his exile when proper materials were in short supply and not of the Master’s doing.

“Yes, everything seems to be in order.” He smiles, turns it over in his hands and looks up. “Thank you,” he says, meaning thank you for trying to rescue me even though I didn’t need to be rescued, thank you for pretending not to notice that I ‘stumbled’ into your most recent plot, alone, and without coat, jumper or underwear: for accepting my apology, such as it is.

“You’re welcome,” the Master says, as the Doctor reaches the door, “Doctor.”

The Doctor turns back and sees concealed longing beneath the Master’s indolent smirk. If they were two different people the Master might ask him to stay; the Doctor might offer. As it is, they may well try to kill each other again when next they meet. If past experience is anything to go by, the Master will be especially vicious after this lost opportunity, once the after-glow has faded.

Now, though, he smiles, “You always are.”

The Doctor flashes him a grin. He ducks his head like a short bow, “Until next time then, Master.”


End file.
